


maybe i'm in the black, maybe i'm on my knees, maybe i'm in the gap between the two trapezes

by r1ker



Category: The Fate of the Furious (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 13:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10809906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker
Summary: lol my university lost power for like three hours and i had no internet so i wrote the filth





	maybe i'm in the black, maybe i'm on my knees, maybe i'm in the gap between the two trapezes

**Author's Note:**

> lol my university lost power for like three hours and i had no internet so i wrote the filth

"What are you thinking about, hm?" Luke hears it somewhere over his right shoulder, half-mumbled into a pillow and still downtrodden with three hours of sleep. It's Deckard as it so happens, having been as apt as ever to losing his body pillow to a raging worry. There had been flashes of dreams that Luke hadn't been able to grab on to long enough to pass his personal judgment. Deckard flat on the ground in that alleyway, Dom's gun having claimed his life, Luke inches away but deciding to run away from the sirens instead of towards his friend.

 

The sting of his hand as he hit the metal wall in the command room as hard as he could, the accusatory way his fractured bones yelled at him as he drew back to storm away. "If you're still worrying about what happened between me and Dom in the alley I'll let you look at the dent my mother left me when she stabbed me with that adrenaline needle."

 

Luke doesn't say a word, just shakes his head knowing seeing the physical ramifications won't do a damn thing to tamp down the crackling ambers of concern stewing about in his head. He runs both hands over his face and tries to shrug off what thoughts that keep making his chest tighten. Lying down next to Deckard he gathers the man close, holds him tighter than any time between the flying shit and when they decided to go in on this whole thing. "I didn't want you to die."

 

"Shit, do you think I wanted to die at the hands of Dominic Toretto? Fat chance, I'll die being stupid before I take one of his bullets." This _really_ doesn't ease Luke's tension and now he's slotting a leg between Deckard's, a free hand cupping the back of his head. "Oh, Christ, you know more people die from vending machine accidents and shark attacks instead of one bullet that barely grazed them? I'm not dying until I have to, and I don't think that time's going be coming up any time soon, yeah?"

 

"I'll kill you myself if we don't move away from this topic right the fuck now," Luke sighs, letting go long enough to reach down and throw the blankets back over them both. In the meantime Deckard worries himself with lying close to Luke's side, a hand creeping down beneath the sheets to grip Luke's in his. Luke loosens a little bit and lies back down next to Deckard.

 

It's quiet for a little while but neither one seems unlikely to return to sleep anytime soon. Deckard lies flat on his back, matching bare arms with Luke, and lets out a slow breath. "I'd had worse than that. When Owen was little, and too fucking short to reach the icebox, he dumped a whole bucket of the shit onto the kitchen floor. Spanish tile, mind you, and I went flat on my arse, bruised three ribs and nearly broke my hand smashing it over Owen's head. Then he ate all of the frosting off of my 10th birthday cake in retaliation. It was pure warfare for a few years until his first close call, and then I realized I couldn't want to lose him over something so stupid as ice and cake."

 

Luke snickers in spite of himself and pulls Deckard's hand to his mouth to kiss the tops of his knuckles. He always had two constants in his life even as his parents were off tending to grueling jobs, little brothers David and Sam, but the three had since parted ways not on the best note. Luke figures perhaps those fond memories had been lost in the moment as he tried to cover his own ass and save the ones of his reluctant teammates. Still, he can remember one that shaped the way he looked at a lot of menial things once taken for granted. "Sam was three and thought he was fit and ready to take on a big-boy bike. Later, with six stitches in his head and cotton packed in his mouth to get the blood and save the splintered teeth, he found that that wasn't the case. When he got over that he got right back on the bike and went at it again, found himself sailing past our front porch at lightning speed ready to take on the world."

 

"Owen never learned how to ride a bike; don't tell him I told you that," Deckard confesses as if his brother's inability to ride steady on two wheels is a state secret in need of solid protection. "Fell on his arse more than once, came crying to me when he split his temple open and bruised his knee. I told him, 'fuck it, let's go have lunch.' Every bike he's got now is gas or electric, couldn't take on two pedals and brakes if he had a gun to his head." Luke is at a full laugh now but still keeps in the back of his mind how this pillow talk could have been lost so quickly and far too soon. He rolls over to kiss Deckard proper on the mouth and slowly descends over him, both knees bracketing Deckard's hips. "Are you telling me the concepts of bikes gets you randy? Different strokes for different folks, I guess."

 

And Luke does. He starts by trailing light, feathery kisses down whatever surface of Deckard not covered by sheets and a quilt, and manages to bypass the scars he knew came from Dom with focused attention. He can see a few in need of his attention and laves his tongue under the ones he knows will leave Deckard squirming. And they do, Deckard's back curving away from the bed, a whisper of a sound meaning he's curled his toes into the sheets. Luke decides to end the foreplay abruptly in order to get through the thing that's burned off most of their residual high of energy they'd both gained after coming back home to one another.

 

Deckard all but parts like water when Luke eases in two slicked fingers, thighs trembling enough to make him fear he'll lose his traction on the bed. "I ought to talk about bikes more if this is what it leads to," he huffs, voice breathy. "Christ on the cross, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" It's a retort said in light of feeling a set of even teeth against the fragile skin of his thighs, the slope where they lead down to his ass. And feeling the soft laugh Luke lets out in response to Deckard's fake outrage. Down at his core Deckard's never taken it any other way than rough, but something niggling in the back of his mind tells him otherwise when Luke does get around to fucking him.

 

There's no telltale slamming of the headboard against the wall. Deckard doesn't sound like he's losing a fight he never had a chance of winning in the first place in regards to who's on top. It's the gentlest fuck of his life and instead of battling over which one controlled the tide he settles in for the smooth sail. Though he pants against Luke's shoulder it's not for the sake of staving off exertion. Rather the care Luke's putting into thrusting only shallowly, staying clear out of the way that once made Deckard yelp. His feet curl against Luke's ass to draw him closer. That ups the pace only enough for Deckard to really savor the burn for what it is – as exquisite as Luke always leads but with a new breath of life that means they've gone far behind the pity and angry fucks they'd started out with early on.

 

Luke is still as focused as ever, breathing hard into the area of the pillow right by Deckard's ear. His hips begin to drive in relentlessly as he sees the end approaching and Deckard meets him jab for jab, neglected cock sliding fruitlessly between their bellies. Luke bites at his jaw and that's what sets Deckard over the edge, coming with a staggered noise of elated surprise. Not far behind is Luke, gathering close to Deckard as he tries to ignore the way his legs shake with his orgasm. They remain intimately near even as the high settles down into tremors and clumsy touches of their hands against their bodies. Luke sacrifices his tank top to clean up where they'd both gotten caught up in themselves. All the while Deckard lies back against his pillow, hands folded up and pillowing his head.

 

"Pillow princess," Luke grumbles as he makes a fairly accurate aim, launching the dirty shirt into the hamper across the room. Despite his fake complaining he wastes no time easing Deckard back into his arms, where he feels the guy belonged all along though their efforts to go at their throats in prison were shot down. He thinks for a second how he wanted harm to come to Deckard, as he presses his cheek to the top of Luke's chest. Luke also takes into consideration all that's happened between them both, and promises whatever god has an open ear tilted down into their bedroom that anyone with ill will towards Deckard just might have to blow through his linebacker, soldier frame. It might be a little weak with affection but will nonetheless deter any naysayers.


End file.
